


In Sweat and Blood

by phantisma



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-02
Updated: 2007-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:25:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantisma/pseuds/phantisma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are monsters that have no names.  They’re not written about, they exist in the shadows and even hunters do not know the ways to vanquish them.  When John Winchester encounters such a monster he finds that beauty and lust are only the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Sweat and Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the pairings and understand that this fic will include Daddy!cest. There is also non-con and dub-con here. There is use of drugs and alcohol. There is m/f, m/m, m/f/m and m/m/m sex. There is blood play. Please do not read if such things bother you.
> 
> The idea behind the “bad guy” here is that it is an unknown type of vampire/succubus creature. I leave it unnamed and undescribed for the most part so that the reader can use their imagination.

It’s nearly autumn, the heat of summer faded into the warm of not yet winter and the smell of apples and dry leaves. It isn’t cold, but he shivers anyway as he watches her cross the parking lot. It’s been a long time, and he almost never looks…he has the memory of his wife and the presence of their boys and the job…always the job.

She isn’t his type, but he can’t keep his eyes from tracking her, the swell of breasts, the curve of hips, and the way she knows he’s watching and plays a hand over those curves is driving him crazy. It’s early in the day, and Sam’s already gone off into town to scout out the school, look for housing a little more permanent than the seedy motel he’d dropped them in two nights before.

School starts in a week…and Sam’s trying to convince him they need to stay for his junior year. Dean’s still inside, sleeping off pain meds and nursing a sprained ankle. And John, he’s sipping a beer and watching this woman touch herself in the doorway of her room, and it isn’t quite ten in the morning.

Slowly, so slowly it doesn’t really register at first, he’s standing, moving…crossing between the Impala and the truck. She licks her lips and he licks his in echo. There’s something not quite right about the way he wants her, the way he’s drawn to her, but when her hand touches his he can’t place what it is. When her lips find his, words flee and he doesn’t resist as she draws him into the dark of her room.

Hands take the bottle of beer, and his jacket. Lips touch his face, his cheeks. A tongue runs over his lip, begging to be let into his mouth. He hesitates, his eyes skirt around them, looking for danger, for the source of the unease in his stomach.

“It’s okay.” Her voice is deep, musical, sensual…like sweat and whiskey…and he feels it inside him, in his cock. The room is close and dark, and it smells of sex. He has an idle thought about who else had been here, of the men she’d brought into her den, but she drove the thought away with the feeling of her body rubbing over his. “I’ll make you happy.”

“Happy.” John echoes the word, but it’s hollow. He’s not sure he knows what happy is…or how this girl can give it to him. His body doesn’t seem to care though.

“Drink.” He looks down and there’s a bottle in his hand. He stares at it until she’s touching him again, urging his hand up to his mouth and then he’s pouring liquid-fire into his throat.

There’s music…something sultry and strange, and her hands are hot as they move over him, peeling back the layers of clothes. He’s only half aware of what she’s doing, only what it’s doing to him….he’s on fire, aching with need he hasn’t had for years…he pours more of the alcohol into him, feels it fingering its way through him, taking away what little he has of control. He’s nearly naked, and he doesn’t know her name, can’t remember why he’s there or why he should be worried.

“Easy, darling…not too much…not yet…” She takes the bottle and her hand glides over his skin, her nails seem longer than he remembers and he hisses as they rake over his chest. Her breath is hot, her tongue hotter still as she leans in and licks across the lines of red she’s left on his white skin.

John can hear himself moan, feel himself shudder…and something isn’t right, but he isn’t sure he cares as her lips close over his nipple and she sucks as if she could feed from him. That thought freezes him…makes him wonder if maybe she isn’t feeding in some way, if maybe she’s a witch…befuddling him.

He gasps for air and pulls back, tries to move away from her touch, but she moves with him, whimpering, needy…her mouth moves over the bloody marks, sucking and he’s helpless to stop her. Some part of him thinks it shouldn’t be as arousing as it seems, but his cock is screaming, wants to be inside her.

“You taste so good,” she murmurs. “Want to taste all of you.”

And just like that her tongue is in his mouth, searching out the walls and ceiling, running frantically over his tongue. There’s the faint taste of copper and tang, blood…his blood, he realizes slowly. He swallows reflexively and she’s pulling, pushing and he’s falling.

The bed catches him and she’s on top of him before he can speak, straddling over him, her small skirt hitched up so that her bare pussy is pressing against his chest…and she’s wet and pressing him deep into the mattress. He’s hard and his hands fall to her waist, wanting to push her onto him, to relieve the building tension, but she has other plans.

Her kiss tastes like sin, like blood and come and ozone. She licks over whiskers he hadn’t shaved that morning, down his sweaty neck, back to those nail marks, her body inching back until he can feel his cock nestling in the crack of her ass. She smiles down at him, wicked and devious as she rises up, her nails digging into his skin, into his chest as she moves and his cock slides in her wetness, unerringly into her.

Her nails dig in deeper as she sinks onto him, as he fills her up and he yells at the mix of pain and pleasure, bellowing, shaking, screaming. He’s bleeding and she’s riding him. The alcohol burns inside him, fire racing through his body and down to his dick and he can’t control himself, thrusting up almost violently.

She laughs, her head thrown forward, dark hair hiding her face, tickling against skin gone tender from the abuse of her fingers. He comes quickly, and she rocks over him, still rising and falling long after he’s stopped, long after he’s begged her to stop, because it hurts…it hurts so damn good and he hears himself whimpering, pushing at her.

She laughs, pours more of the fire over his open mouth. He swallows to keep from drowning, and the room spins, darkens…he’s falling into the dark and there’s nothing to stop him.

 

 

The room is stifling, hot and humid with sweat. He’s stretched out on the bed, his body slicked with the wanting he knows now is more than simple lust. He craves her, the touch of heated skin against his, the taste of her tongue…he’s shaking with the need for more, and when he opens his eyes, he’s rocked by the sight of her.

His hands are bound, pulled to the side and the ropes burn against his skin. He pulls on them, but she touches him, her fingers sliding over his mouth. Her voice burns in his ear. “Easy.”

The blade stings, pulling over naked flesh and he hisses, arches under her. She moves with him, then settles her mouth over the wound on his shoulder, sucking, pulling him into her mouth.

Vampire. His mind whispers the word, but there’s no evidence, no teeth…just her, just the way her lips pull at the wound, the way her tongue slides under his skin. She lifts her face, looks down at him with blood on her lips. It’s obscene and arousing the way she licks them, licks at his blood…the way she smiles, her teeth stained red and there aren’t any fangs, only teeth and tongue and blood.

“Shh…I promise you it will feel so good…just relax…just let go.” Her words whisper over his skin, over the wound, like fingers, touching and arousing. He wants to…but some part of him knows he can’t…that it was important…Dean. His eyes roll closed as her tongue maps out the lines of muscle on his stomach and delve into his navel.

Dean. He needs to get back to Dean.

He struggles to open his eyes, pulls again on his hands, on his feet. Alarm speeds through him as he realizes he is trapped, that he’d let lust lead him to this. “What…what are you?”

She lifts her face, rubs her naked breasts along his cock, smiles. “I’m just a girl who thinks you’re hot.”

He shakes his head. No. This isn’t right. Not real. “Witch?”

She pouts at him and he’s taken with the need to kiss her, to taste her. She shakes her head and slithers up his body. “I’m…temptation…sin.” She sits over him, her wet cunt pressing against the wounds in his chest. She rubs herself over him, and he can almost feel her fluid seeping into him. “I give you what you need, what your body wants…can you feel it John? Can you feel me?”

She leans down, kissing him. “Let me inside John…you don’t know what good feels like.” Her hand snakes down over him, under her, sliding over his cock. He gasps and tries to resist, but damn he’s so close and really…what could it hurt? It’s just an orgasm.

He yells as he comes, and she strokes him over and over, smearing the hot fluid over his skin before she turns and swallows him whole. He yells again…too much…too soon…as she laps over him, licking him clean.

Then her pussy is in his face and dripping into his open mouth. “Lick me baby,” she purrs at him and he shudders with want and need. It’s been a long time and the taste of her is like honey, sticky and sweet. Almost on its own, his tongue reaches for her, sliding through her slickness and pulling that honey into him.

She wriggles, pressing closer and he looses himself to the scent and taste, sucking on her labia, fucking her with his tongue. When she comes, it flows into him and he is forced to swallow it as she laughs, the sound of it tickling his balls.

He catches his breath and tries to think around the lust in his stomach, the need for more. The clock says it’s two. He’d been gone a few hours. Sam wouldn’t be back for a while, Dean probably hadn’t missed him. He was on his own. “Relax, John.”

She’s beside the bed, holding the bottle. He squints up at her in the dark of the room. She’s pretty, dark hair that hung around her face and over her shoulders, dark blue eyes. “I don’t even know your name,” he manages, lifting his head.

“My momma named me Angela, but Daddy calls me Angel.”

Angel. Right. John smiled. “You’re no Angel.”

Her grin is wicked. “No John…but neither are you.”

“Why don’t you untie me, and we can not be angels together.”

Her hand slides down over his arm, up to his face. “It’s so much easier when you don’t fight.”

He’s about to ask what was easier, when the door opens, flooding the room with the flare of afternoon sunlight. John starts, tried to move, but he’s bound, naked and spread for the world to see. A shadow moves into the doorway, a deep chuckle rumbling over the floor and then the door is closing, the world disappearing as John’s eyes try frantically to adjust.

The figure moves closer, the chuckle still hanging in the corners of the room. She licks her lips, her fingers playing with her nipples. “Did I do good?”

The shadow becomes a man, a little taller than her, older, dark hair just starting to gray. He’s smiling, drawing Angel to him, kissing her though his eyes never left John’s. “You did beautifully, baby.”

The man’s hand slips to ghost over the wounds marking John’s chest. “Does he taste good?”

She licks her finger, as if she can still taste him, nodding.

“He’s a big man, may take both of us, Angel.” The man leans in, licks at blood spread on John’s chest.

“Can I keep him, Daddy? After?”

The man’s tongue swipes over his lips. “We’ll see Angel.”

 

 

The room is still…quiet…warm…he doesn’t move, other than to breathe softly, groaning into the damp, dirty air. His body is loose, lost in the ache and burn, in the dark that envelopes him, seeking entrance. He’s changing, he can feel it inside him. It comes with the sweat and come and blood, they take from him, and give back, and he’s helpless to stop them.

They’ve been at him for hours, and he hasn’t been allowed to come. His cock is purple with need and it hurts. She licks it and he keens. The man is nearby, hovering. “He’s close, Angel.”

John moans as the bed dips, every sensation adding to the need to come, to let go and escape the torment. Her mouth is on his thigh, sucking a bruise into his skin. He’s trembling and can’t remember why he’s fighting, holding back…a gentle finger strokes over his face…a gentle voice whispers under his skin…he can’t make out the words, but he knows what they want.

“Please…” Is that his voice? It seems so broken, so needy. Broken. When did he get so broken? It’s inside him, sliding under his skin, adding to the pressure in his cock, adding to his want, his need…he’s no longer bound, they know he doesn’t need it…not now…he’s not leaving until he’s come.

The dark gathers in his belly, heavy, swirling dark that invades him, clouds his thoughts, makes him crave unnaturally. She slides along his side, up to his ear. They’re both whispering now, into him, hands and tits and cock and lips touch him and he arches up, seeking out relief.

Hot tears slide over his cheeks as they laugh, pull away, pull back. They stand beside him now, wrapped up in one another. Kissing, touching…but not him…some small part of him knows this is what they want, that they need his surrender, need him to ask, to come to them, and that once he does he’s lost…but the languid lust in his veins, the fire burning in his blood is too much and he’s already swallowed so much of the dark…he can’t leave this room until he finds release.

John watches his hand move over filthy hotel sheets, wet with bodily fluids that have seeped out of him, replaced by whatever they have given him…blood and come and sweat and spit…he reaches for her hand. She turns, her smile wicked, her eyes burning brightly. “You ready John? Know what to do?”

He hears himself growl, drags her to him. His kiss is deep and he can taste himself on her tongue. He pulls her to the bed, presses her beneath him, takes control, takes charge, plunges his raging cock into her sloppy wet cunt and she squeals in pleasure.

Hands on his hips steady him, slow him and the bed moves, the man climbs behind him and as John thrusts down into Angel, the man thrusts down into John and the noise in the room is like wild animals rutting. Words fail, flee and he’s left with grunting and groans, whimpers and moans, with the feeling of wet heat around him, of blood and sweat slipping out of him, painting her, the taste of them on his tongue…he’s slipping away, into the dark shadow that penetrates him, fills him…and he’s turning, he can feel it…though what he’s becoming isn’t clear.

The knife sings and two mouths find their way to blood, drinking the last of him, and his orgasm rockets out, draining him. She draws his head to her breast, to the blood welling and he suckles it like a baby, rocking with the rhythm of the cock inside him. The hot blood sears his throat, as the hot come burns in his ass and he falls, spent and lost and weak to the bed…alone at last.

 

 

The bed groans as he rolls over, and it’s unfamiliar when he opens his eyes. Daylight is pouring in the window. The motel room is dank, thick with the smell of bodies and sex…or maybe it’s just the mattress that smells that way. He pulls himself up and off, searches the shadows for his clothes.

He can’t remember why he’s here, or what he’s done. There’s a vague image of an Angel…with dark hair and dark eyes. He shakes his head and reaches for his jeans on the floor by the bed. His body protests each movement with an achy whine that reminds him he’s not as young as he once was.

It takes a few minutes, but he manages to find his clothes without much incident. His head is reeling and his stomach growling with a hunger that rumbles through him as he stumbles to the door and stands in the bright morning light squinting out at the parking lot of the motel. The Impala sits beside the truck, pointing him at the door to the room he’d gotten when they’d finished the hunt.

He rubs a hand over his eyes and shuffles across the gravel, fishing in his pocket for the room key. Dean is on the bed, his ankle propped up on a pillow. John grunts, drops his key on the dresser, makes a line for the bathroom. Needs to shower the grunge off him, he’s sure he must smell like sex.

“Where the hell have you been?”

John shakes his head, mutters something, hopes Dean will leave it be.

Dean’s eyes follow him. He can feel them. “You’ve been gone for two days, Dad. Sam’s freaking out.”

“Hunt…” John says over his shoulder. “Got away.” He pushes into the bathroom, shoves the door closed, but it’s warped and doesn’t stay shut. He starts the shower and pulls at his clothes, staring at the marks on his torso as he peels the shirt off. Bite marks and bruises, healing wounds…they should mean something, but he isn’t sure what. He drops the shirt and his pants and steps in under the shower.

“What hunt, Dad?” Dean asks, the door open now. John can see him through the plastic film of the shower curtain…he’s a shadow, movement and scent. “Are you okay?”

“Dean.” It comes out as a groan. John can smell him, his skin, the coffee he drank. His cock is hard and he wants things he can’t begin to voice. “Go lay down.”

“I’m tired of laying down. Tell me. What was it?”

John runs a hand through the water, over his face. This is Dean. His son Dean. He holds on to that. “Not sure. It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“You could have at least told me what you were doing.” Dean says, but he’s gone, the bathroom quiet again.

His hands are around his cock now, stroking it lightly. “You should get off that ankle. I’ll be out in a minute.” He pulls a hand down his cock and groans in relief. His orgasm comes quick and he breathes through it, watching the thick white goo slide down the tub and into the drain. It feels better now.

He steps out, slicking away the water with a towel too small to be much good. When he’s mostly dry, he pulls the medical bag to him. There’s a small pharmacy in the bag, pain meds, antibiotics, sedatives. A hunter never knew what he might need.

Dean is back on the bed, flipping through television channels, none of which actually come in very well. John moves to him, not bothering with clothes, with covering his nakedness. “Where is your brother?”

Dean shrugs, looks at him, then away. “Dad…come on.”

“I want to look at your ankle. Where’s your brother?”

“Geeking out at the library. Put some pants on.”

“In a minute.” John puts the bag on the bed. He lifts Dean’s ankle, unwraps the bandage. It’s black and blue and purple, but the swelling has gone down. He glances up, but Dean’s eyes are on the TV. “Looks better.” His hands work over the ankle, and Dean doesn’t look, and John’s hand is on the syringe. There’s a tiny voice in the back of his mind yelling at him, but he pricks Dean’s skin and presses the plunger.

Dean looks up, surprised. “Dad?” His voice is already thick, the drugs working quick. John pulls the needle out, puts it in the bag, runs a hand down Dean’s leg. He’s hungry. So hungry it hurts.

“It’s okay son…it’s easier if you don’t fight.”

Everything is slow and it doesn’t make any sense. His father is still naked, and he’s hard. He’s sitting in the chair staring at Dean and Dean is…drugged. Naked. He should be worried, but he can’t process the reality enough. 

Sam. Sam would come. He shakes his head at the thought. Sam wouldn’t know what to do. Dean can see where this is going. It’s hot in the room. Sticky. He’s sweating. His father shifts, moves, stands. Dean wants to run, wants to lock himself in the bathroom.

His father’s hand is on his skin, hot as it slides through sweat and surprisingly gentle. “Easy, Dean. I’m going to make it feel good.”

Dean’s body is heavy and he can’t make it move, but he doesn’t have to, his father is moving it for him, rolling him onto his stomach, touching him, caressing him. Dean’s breathing comes in pants and gasps. “Dad…don’t…please.”

“Shh…it’s okay, Dean. It’s all okay.” 

That big hand soothes down Dean’s back and over his naked ass. Dean wants to pull away, wants to plead, beg his father to snap out of it…whatever it is…but he can’t really move, and the words get caught in his throat. Kisses, John’s lips are on his skin, down his back, over the rounds of Dean’s ass. 

He whispers “Christo” but nothing changes, his father’s tongue slides over flesh that his father’s tongue should never see. When it swipes through his crack and up to his hole, Dean shivers. “Dad…stop…”

But he doesn’t stop, his tongue pushing in, and Dean’s body is so gone on the drugs there’s no resistance. He squeezes his eyes shut, presses his face into the pillow and prays Sam doesn’t come back until it’s over. Tongue gives way to fingers and Dean trembles, trying to make his body respond to his need to get away. 

White lightning. His breath hitches and his fingers twitch against the bedspread as his father’s fingers press in relentlessly against a spot inside him that makes his cock swell and his vision swim. He doesn’t want this, doesn’t want the way his body reacts to his father’s touch, but it does.

The bed dips, shifts and his father is over him, hot and hard and hovering. Dean’s mouth opens to beg, but he ends up biting into the pillow, burying his scream into it as his father presses into him, laying over him. He pushes Dean into the mattress as he straddles Dean’s ass, his cock buried inside him, pulsing against virgin territory.

His fingers pet over Dean’s shoulder, his voice whispers rough words that don’t register as Dean tries to adjust, tries not to panic. His cock drags across the bedspread as his father moves inside him and he knows he’s going to come despite everything, knows it and can’t stop it. 

His face is wet, the pillow under him damp, and still his father fucks into him…over and over…and as his thrusts get harder, his father’s words gone to grunting, Dean feels the heat rush from his stomach, into his cock and out, smearing over his stomach as the movement pushes him across the bed.

His ass is screaming in pain long before the heat of his father’s come fills him, and it’s as if his ass sucks the heat into him, filling his belly. His father’s hand is in his hair, and the dark is hovering. There’s a gentle kiss, on his head, another needle, blankets…and Dean’s vision goes before his eyes are closed.

 

There are voices…vague light. Dean aches, he’s sweating, feverish. Nightmares chase him even as he opens his eyes. Nightmares of his father possessed. 

Sam. It’s Sam. At the door. His father is blocking most of the light, and Sam’s outside. Dean tries to sit up, but the room spins. “Your brother’s sick. Bobby needs the books.”

“You’re letting me drive the Impala all the way to Bobby’s. Alone.” Sam’s voice is incredulous. 

“You’re sixteen, Sam. You have your license. I need to take care of Dean.”

There’s panic in his chest that Dean doesn’t fully understand. He doesn’t want Sam to leave. John’s handing out the keys. “Take your time. Keep it under the speed limit. We’ll be here when you get back.”

And Sam is gone. The door is closed. His father is close, leaning over, touching his face with hands that seem too hot, too much. Dean shivers and pulls away. “Easy Dean…you’re burning up.” 

“Dad?” His voice is scratchy and strange. The bed moves as John sits beside him, holding a glass.

“Drink this.”

Dean opens his mouth and tastes alcohol, strong, burning into him. “All of it Dean.”

He doesn’t understand why his father is giving him alcohol, or why it burns so much, or why he’s naked under the piles of blankets or why the room is so hot. His father’s hand is on his chest and Dean can feel the sweat well on his skin. “Shh…easy…” 

His father’s eyes are soft brown, but there’s a fire in their depths. He leans in, kisses Dean’s forehead, his eyes. It’s gentle, yet something in his touch is disturbing. His lips touch Dean’s and Dean gasps. His body jerks, his cock suddenly hard…and he shifts, trying to hide it, feeling the blush rise in his cheeks. His father’s kiss deepens, his tongue slides across Dean’s lips and his hand…god…his hand. Dean stiffens as John’s hand closes around his cock, jerking him slowly.

“It’s okay Dean…relax. Let go.”

He’s pretty sure that’s the last thing he should be doing. His dream comes back in a rush, though he’s not convinced it was a dream anymore. The feeling of his father inside him, coming and lulling him to sleep…and now Sam is gone and he’s alone…and his father is jerking him off…and it’s so wrong, but he can’t seem to stop it.

He yells as he comes hard, filling his father’s fist. Dean watches in disbelief as John raises that fist and licks it clean. “Dad—“

“Drink Dean.” John’s lifting the glass again.

“I don’t want it, Dad. Please.”

John’s eyes are tender as he runs a hand down Dean’s sweaty cheek. “It’s okay.”

The glass is on his lips and Dean’s mouth opens, takes it, swallows the fire and gasps around it…and it’s more than alcohol he realizes belatedly. His body is slack and unresponsive, the fever burns inside his skin, in his head, and he wants…wants what he should never want.

He watches his father rise, slowly removing his clothing, shedding as if he is some sort of serpent. The room is close and sticky, even as John peels away the blankets and sheets, leaving Dean exposed, his slick skin oozing sweat. Dean’s eyes track John in the near dark, pick out the curved round of his ass, the sharp relief of hips, the sway of a fully hard cock.

There’s a glint of half-light on metal and Dean’s eyes skip away from his father’s cock, his tongue slides along his lips as he spots the knife in his father’s hands. The blade is long, sharp. It’s Dean’s knife, perfectly balanced…wicked beauty…and in his father’s hands it sings to life. 

Dean can feel his body arching, as if the knife turns him on, as if he wants to feel the blade on his flesh. John moves closer, the knife mesmerizing, even as he sets it aside and reaches for ropes Dean hadn’t seen before. Dean can’t look away, even as his hands are bound and pulled above his head, tied down, restrained.

John’s hand skims down, over his heaving chest, across his belly. It skirts around his cock, which has begun to stir again, and down his leg, bending and pulling until Dean is spread wide. Dean’s panting as John moves to the other side, repeats the process and leaves Dean bound and spread, naked and hard.

His hand invades then, moving to the open hole under Dean, still tender from the last fucking, still open…the muscles loose from the drugs and the drink. Dean gasps as his father’s fingers penetrate into him, gasps and clenches his ass as much as he can…but the muscles aren’t responsive anywhere but in his cock. John moves between his spread legs, positions his cock and shoves inside. His cock is big and fills Dean completely and Dean wants to yell, wants to fight and more than anything wants his father to move…to make it feel good.

His father whispers his name and Dean opens his eyes, watching the blade dance over him. The cold flat of the metal runs over his nipple, up over hot skin to his neck. The edge presses into skin and for a moment, Dean thinks his father means to kill him. He holds the knife there and pulls out, until only the very tip of his cock is inside Dean…and Dean keens, wants it back, wants to feel the fullness…and yet he knows it’s wrong. He stretches, tries to pull his head away from the knife, but it follows, then John thrusts inward…crashing against Dean’s prostate, filling him and Dean yells out.

He yells again as the knife slices into his chest and his father’s mouth closes over the wound. He sucks in mouthfuls of blood and thrusts his cock in deeper. “Dad…” Dean’s eyes roll closed, the sucking sensation making his cock weep.

Vampire. His dad’s been turned. His hips hitch into his father’s stroke, his cock trapped between them. But that isn’t right…not exactly…his father’s teeth worry at the wound, milking more blood from it while his cock moves inside Dean in counterpoint. John roars as he comes, as his come floods Dean and when he lifts up there is blood across his face, smeared over one cheek and staining his teeth.

He takes Dean’s cock in one bloody hand, stroking it until Dean is close to orgasm, then swoops down, licking the blood and pre-come and sucking until Dean explodes. John keeps sucking long after the orgasm stops and Dean strains at the ropes, begging in a hoarse voice until the dark swallows him.

 

It’s almost like watching someone else, except he knows that’s his hand wielding the knife, and he tastes the blood on his tongue. He should feel remorse, regret, but all he feels is hunger, need, desire…Dean’s blood is delicious in his mouth, his come hot and satisfying…even his sweat adds to the taste, to the need to devour him. 

John wants in ways he’s never known…wants his son’s submission, his acceptance of this…this…thing, this dark desire, this burning blackness that has invaded him. He wants Dean to want him, to want this. He wants Dean.

He looks down to where their bodies are joined. Dean’s head tosses on the pillow, his torso marked and bloody. There’s come across the bloody marks and John smears it into him, guiding it into the wounds. Dean groans, his cock hard again. He wants it too.

He knows it wasn’t always like this, but he can’t remember why or when it happened, how long they’ve been here, in the dark heat of the room. He knows Dean is close, knows he’s taken almost all that he can from him in sweat and blood and come. He needs to build it now, build the need, the desire…make Dean want to let go. 

John raises the glass and presses on Dean’s chin. “Drink Dean, and I’ll cut you loose.”

Dean’s eyes open, their green dark and filled with crazed lust. His throat starts working before the liquid reaches him, and he swallows quickly, his face flushing as the fire burns. John lifts the knife and cuts the ropes holding Dean’s hands, then moves his cock inside him. Dean grips the pillow, arches as much as he can with the weight of John on top of him and John pushes harder, deeper, fucks into Dean with abandon until he’s coming, filling Dean yet again…knowing his body would pull it into him, work at turning him too.

John lays across Dean’s body, all spent and pale, his mouth moving over skin, up to his throat. “Just let go Dean…It will be so good. I promise.”

 

The room is still…quiet…warm…he doesn’t move, can’t move, doesn’t want to move…only wants to come…wants to stop fighting…isn’t sure what he’s fighting or why. His body hurts from the battle…hurts and stinks…and his cock is hard…it’s been hard for hours and his father won’t let him come…though his father has filled his mouth and his ass and come across his skin…so many times…and it isn’t real…and yet it is.

His father’s voice whispers and it’s like the knife, slicing into him, marking him, taking away the reasons to fight. It’s so soft Dean can’t make out the words, but they make him want to give in…give up…let go…

The dark isn’t natural…it hovers over him, inside him…it wants him…it’s the dark that’s taken his father…that’s brought them here to this…it cups his hard cock, makes him cry out with need and desperate desire…it fills his belly, invades him from his father’s come, his spit, his sweat.

He’s no longer bound, and he lies on the bed, curling around himself, his cock, his need. Relief requires only reaching out, reaching for him, abandoning himself to the dark…taking what his father offers.

Almost blindly, Dean gropes, finds his father’s hand and uses it to pull himself up. He is crazed with need as his lips search out his father’s, as he opens his mouth to his father’s tongue. His cock hurts and his body feels stretched and taut. He brings John’s hand to his cock, closes it around him and fucks into it, rutting into his father’s hand.

“That’s it Dean…give it to me.” John whispers and Dean fucks harder, coming and coming again, before pushing John back onto the bed and swallowing his cock. As his father’s come fills his mouth, Dean falls back, swallowing the dark into himself.

 

He’s alone when he wakes. His father is gone, the room quiet. Dean stretches, hissing as the pain registers. His ass screams, his cock is red and limp; and his body is marked. He inches his way across the bed, puts his feet on the floor. The last few days are hazy, surreal…yet his body knows something has happened. He rises, shuffles into the bathroom, stares blearily at his reflection.

There are cuts and bruises and bite marks decorating his torso, his thighs, even his ass. He smells like sex and sweat and his skin feels like he hasn’t showered in a week of grave digging. His face is scruffy with whiskers. The only place that doesn’t hurt is his ankle and he looks down to find the bruising there nearly gone.

He wonders idly how long he’s been lying in that bed, sick with fever…pauses as he wonders why he he’d smell like sex if he was sick with fever, but brushes it off as the water starts to warm up. 

Dean gasps as the water runs over him, over healing wounds and sore muscles, and he can’t remember why he’s so cut up, but figures that maybe that’s because of the fever.

His dick stings as the water touches it, like he’s fucked his way through a cheerleading squad or something. He touches it and something uncoils in his belly, something dark and needy. It rumbles and quakes inside him.

He’s hungry. Hungry for something he can’t name. 

He hears his name. Sam. Sam’s voice. His cock hardens in his hand, and that’s normal enough that it doesn’t give him pause. He shoves his head back under the water and rinses off, turns the water off and steps out. “Bathroom Sammy. Gimme a minute,” he calls, toweling off. 

Sam’s opening curtains when he comes into the room. “Christ Dean, it’s like 95 degrees in here.” He’s opening the window when Dean grabs him and pulls him into an embrace, pressing their lips together. 

Sam struggles, more out of surprise than distress. They’ve done this before. It’s been a while, and Dean was the one to stop it last time…but now he wants more than what Sam’s giving him. 

They stumble backwards until Sam’s against the window, the heater under his legs. He yells and lurches forward because the heater’s on full blast and the metal is hot, even through his jeans. “Fuck, Dean. What the hell?” 

Sam pushes him off and sweeps his eyes over his brother. “What happened to you?” He shakes his head and pulls the curtains closed, because Dean is naked and standing in the middle of the room. “Put some clothes on.” Sam grumbles, peeling off his jacket.

“Where you been, Sammy? I missed you.” Dean moves closer, but Sam pulls away. 

“What the fuck, Dean? Dad could come in.”

“Dad won’t care.” Dean’s not entirely sure why he’s so certain, but he knows he needs to get Sam out of some of those clothes. “I want to taste you Sam.”

Sam rolls his eyes, crosses to the heater to turn it off. “Right…cause that worked so well last time.”

Dean remembers the taste, the sweet taste of his brother’s mouth…like watermelon candy. He remembers getting hard and wanting and realizing it wasn’t fair to Sam…that Sam deserved something normal.

“Forget all that and come here.” Dean pitches his voice just so, sees the way it affects Sam, cuts through some of his resistance. He knows Sam wants it; Sam had been the first one to cross that line, to kiss him in the dark woods after a hunt. Sam turns, stops, stares.

Dean crosses to him. They stand eye to eye now, and it won’t be long before Sam is bigger. Dean touches, hands on hands, on arms, on shoulders…he holds Sam’s face, tilts his head.

“Dean.” Sam whispers and it’s sweet and soft and Dean licks his lips, licks salt and sin before he closes over the sugar and sweet of Sam. He can’t help but groan into Sam’s mouth.

Sam’s hands aren’t touching, his body is stiff and only his mouth seems to be giving in to what Dean wants, but Dean knows how to bring him along, knows how to kiss and touch so that Sam melts against the heat of it, into the need. They’d come so close that last time, months before. They’d been nearly naked and hard and both of them groaning with the need when they’d heard the truck and stopped and pulled away, Sam to pretend he was sleeping, Dean into a cold shower…but now there was nothing to stop them…there was only this fiery hunger burning away inside him that he knew would only be slaked by the taste of Sam on his tongue.

“Dean…wait…give me a sec.” Sam mumbles as Dean tears at his clothes.

Dean shakes his head. “No Sammy…need it…need you…touch me.” Dean is breathing heavy as he gets Sam’s shirt up, his mouth closing over Sam’s nipple while his hands continue pushing at the cotton.

Sam pulls the shirt off and tosses it, his hands on Dean’s shoulders, pushing him away, but Dean only moves his mouth back to Sam’s. Their chests are bare, pressing together and it sends electric shocks through him. Sam’s cock is hardening under his jeans, Dean can feel it pressed against his thigh and he shifts so that he can press into it.

Sam moans, his hands moving now to his zipper. “What about Dad?” Sam asks breathlessly. Dean backs to the bed, watching Sam shed his jeans. 

Dean shakes his head. “Don’t care. Come here.” He’s on the bed, and it smells like come and sweat and fuck if that doesn’t just make him harder. He has a flash of his father on top of him, fucking him and his cock twitches, leaking pre-come. 

Sam comes to the bed, and Dean pulls him in, kissing him possessively, rolling him down to the bed. He runs hands greedy over his brother’s skin. There isn’t enough salt, not enough sweat as Dean kisses his way down, his hands moving Sam’s legs out and away. Sam’s hands hover near his own cock, as if he isn’t sure what’s happening but when Dean’s mouth closes over it, Sam’s voice makes a sound he’s never heard before and Sam’s hands fall to the mattress.

Dean’s desperate for the taste, the hunger ripping at him, the desire fueling the frantic pace as he’s sucking up and licking around and Sam’s yelling, his hands fisting in the soiled sheets. His hips are off the bed, his ass clenched tight, and Dean sucks hard and deep. He’s rewarded by the first salty splash on his tongue and Sam’s low growl and Dean rides him down to the mattress, sucks him clean until Sam’s pushing him away.

Dean’s panting as he crawls up his brother’s body, kisses him with the taste of come. The syringe is in his hand before he recognizes what he’s doing…the needle slipping into Sam’s skin while Dean’s tongue plunders his mouth and Sam’s eyes widen even as his body falls slack.

He tosses the needle aside and moves so that his cock is pressed against his brother’s ass. He’s not asleep, and Sam’s head moves lightly against the dirty pillow as Dean presses in, lifts Sam’s legs up and to the sides, watches as his cock slowly penetrates Sam’s ass…there’s no lube and it must burn, but Sam can’t say anything, his mouth moving numbly as Dean pulls out and then back in and he’s nearly coming already.

Dean licks his lips. “It’s okay Sammy…just relax….let me make you feel good.” He closes his eyes and lets go, lets the sensation carry him, filling his brother’s ass with come before collapsing forward. Sam’s warm beneath him, but not warm enough, not nearly enough.

 

“Sammy, Sammy drink this.”

Sam’s not completely awake, but there’s a glass in his face, on his lip and Dean’s pouring some liquid into him. It burns like alcohol but tastes like…like blood or something. Sam sputters, but it keeps coming and he has to swallow.

It’s like sin, liquid and hot and tempting. He wants more once he’s swallowed, even after Dean pulls it away and Dean’s laughing, petting…Sam’s skin is alive with the need for touch, for more…for Dean. 

“Dean.” It’s a groan, a moan…a whine that makes Dean chuckle again, their bodies sliding against one another in the sticky heat. “Dean.”

“Right here, Sammy, right here…gonna make you feel so good.”

Dean’s tongue is on him…moving over his flesh and Sam’s cock wants to feel it, strains up for it. Dean responds by rolling him over, so that his cock is trapped against the damp sheet and Dean’s tongue maps out the line of his spine. Sam relaxes more as Dean’s hands rumble over his back and down to his ass. That tongue marks its way through Sam’s crack and up to his hole, licking and laving and the pressing inside him and Sam stiffens a little.

Dean’s chuckle is sinister and slow, his hands searing against bare flesh. “Easy, Sammy…easy…”

Sam spots the glass and reaches for it, swallowing more of the fire, damnation in a glass. Dean’s moving rising over him, pressing into him and Sam thinks it should hurt more than it does, but there’s no pain…not until something slices into his back…but Dean’s kisses away the sting, licks and sucks on the skin and that should be disgusting, but Sam finds it only turns him on more. 

He knows something isn’t right, but then, he’s laying naked under his brother, and he’s wanted this since he knew what this was…and he can’t fight the way he’s craved his brother’s touch…and so Dean has a blood kink, that doesn’t surprise him after everything they’ve been through.

Dean’s tongue slides through the cut and Sam whimpers a little. It doesn’t hurt, not really…it stings and it burns and it’s almost as though the saliva he leaves behind is alive, but then Dean’s thrusting and grunting and Sam’s cock strains at the linen under him, wanting more. 

He stiffens when the door opens, when bright light is blocked by heavy shadow and his father’s voice rumbles across the floor. Dean pauses, buried deep inside Sam and the door closes, their father moving closer, his hand fisting in Sam’s hair and turning his face up. 

He expects anger, disgust…not the pure lust he finds. “Dad?” 

But John’s hand leaves him and moves to Dean…Dean who’s still buried balls deep inside Sam, Dean whose body is heavy on top of him and Sam blinks as their mouths connect, as they kiss with tongues and teeth and groaning. 

He wants to move, to get away, but he’s trapped by the alcohol, by the drugs, by Dean’s body. “You taste good, Sammy.” John says and when he bends toward Sam’s face he can see blood on his father’s lips…blood that came from Dean’s mouth.

“Dad?” Sam says it again, reaches for him. John kisses over Sam’s palm, sucks at the skin on his wrist.

“It’s okay, Sammy….it’s okay.”

Sam isn’t sure okay is the right word when his father’s zipper sounds and Dean’s movement pushes him closer to his father’s cock and it’s hard and smells musky. John shuffles closer, runs a thick thumb over Sam’s lips, pressing on the lower lip until Sam opens his mouth.

Sam thinks he must be dreaming, though he can’t make out whether it’s a nightmare or not…because Dean is everything he’s wanted…and maybe if it has to come with _this_ …but now his father’s cock is on his tongue and Sam wants to shake his head, wants to get away. 

Dean is fucking into him, slow and steady, licking at the wound. John is holding his head and fucking into his mouth and Sam can’t breathe, can’t think past the immediate moment, past the way his cock really shouldn’t be so hard, shouldn’t want to come so badly…not like this…but he does…he does and when Dean cuts him a second time, Sam comes, hot and sticky on his stomach, smeared into the bed as Dean thrusts and sucks and comes inside him.

And he’s still there, still on top of him, still inside him while their father holds Sam’s head and spews come into the back of his throat where Sam has no choice but to swallow…and it feels like the alcohol did, like it’s alive and burning into him, fingers moving through his stomach…and Sam has a few moments to wonder what has gotten them before the dark swells and swallows him.

 

“He’s strong.” It’s Dean’s voice. Sam can feel him on the bed, sitting close, his hand casually on Sam’s thigh.

“Always has been.” That was his father. On his other side. Sam wants to open his eyes, wants to plead with them.

He knows. It won’t matter. The darkness is already building inside him. He feels it with every touch of their tongues, in each drop of sweat, every ounce of come they empty into him.

Sam shifts and brings their attention back to him. He opens his eyes, finds his father’s face in the dark. The stench in the room is strong and Sam feels slick with the heat. His hands are bound, like they have been for hours, over his head. His father’s face is concerned, his hand gentle. “We don’t want to hurt you, Sammy.”

Sam licks his lips, looks to his brother. Dean’s hand slides over his hip, up onto his stomach. “It’s so much easier when you stop fighting Sam.” 

Sam shakes his head. “No…no Dean…don’t do this…we can figure it out.”

John’s smile is sad. He has a syringe in his hand. “It’s okay, Sam. Let us make it feel good.”

“Dad! No.” Sam pulls away, rolls his body toward Dean, but it only offers the flesh of his ass up to his father. The needle plunges into him and Sam’s resistance is melting. “Fuck. Dad…please…Dad…” His voice trails away, and he can’t figure out how to make the sounds again.

John’s hand pets over his skin, stroking through the sweat. “Shh…Sam …everything is going to feel so good. I promise.” 

Sam is so caught up in John that he doesn’t see the knife in his brother’s hand, not until it moved over his stomach and down to his thigh. Two swift movements and they both bend to suckle at new wounds while Sam’s cock responds by hardening and begging for attention. 

Dean lifts his face, and makes soft sounds that Sam supposes are meant to calm him. “We only want you to be with us, Sam….forever…like this. The three of us, together forever.”

He bends back to his…feeding…and Sam can’t hold his head up anymore. The heat is oppressive, pushing at him, pulling him down and he doesn’t want to, but he thinks maybe it’s just easier to let it.

 

With his eyes closed he can almost forget…lose himself in the soft murmur…in the warm slide of skin…almost…

The room is still…quiet…warm…he doesn’t move, other than to bite the pillow, groaning into its damp, dirty linen. His body is loose, laying long over sheets that have seen better days and he doesn’t want to dwell on what stains them…he’s not certain he could move if he had to…or that he could even want to…

And there’s something wrong with that…but he can’t think to figure out what that is.

He’s vaguely aware of breathing…a tiny thing…it stirs the hair on his arm. He’s more aware of the blanket of warmth surrounding him…covering him…moving into him…slow, like they have all the time in the world…He’s lost track of the words…soft in his ear…low and constant…but he knows the rhythm…the pattern…the lull as he lets go a little more.

There’s tenderness in this…in the way hands caress over muscles so spent they lie like liquid beneath his skin…in the _please_ …in the leisurely slip of one body into another…in the fingers that brush his hair away from his sweaty face…in _Dean_ rocking slowly against him, his eyes closed, his breathing only vaguely softer than his words.

Tenderness is what lulls him…brings him to almost…lets him feel the way the dirty sheets hold his cock and rub against it, rub into it…lets him drift on love you and need this…lets him almost forget that this hadn’t been a choice…that his hands are bound above him…that somewhere in the dark of the room there’s another watching…lets him feel _Sammy_ and each gentle stroke, every pulsing pause of his brother’s touch in his deepest core…

Almost…right there…to the brink…the edge of everything…wondering if this is the time they will let him fall over it…if he can…will…wondering how long this has gone on…how much longer they’ll keep him like this…quivering with need for it…

Heat spreads through him, the air is cooler, the bed moves…if he opens his eyes he might see them…but he keeps them closed…moves against the sheets…empty…alone…wants it…he can hear them…can feel Dean as if he’s still there inside him…soft touches…hands pulling him back…away from it…soft chuckles as he moans, cries…more tears to keep the pillow wet…and he’s left at almost…almost…

On some level he knows what they’re doing…how they’re pushing him to wanting it, to falling…turning…because he wants it…some part of him wants it so bad he can taste it, along with the taste of come and sweat and blood and alcohol. Hours…maybe days they’ve been here, like this…keeping him on the edge.

They bleed him, sweat him…they lick up all his fluids like they carry life. They touch him, they touch each other. They fuck him. They fuck each other. He knows it even when he can’t see. He can hear them, rutting like animals on the floor or against the wall.

He’s so close he thinks he might be able to come if he could just touch himself, if he could focus his thoughts on his need…but each time he tries he’s reminded that his body isn’t his…that it’s slack and bound and with each movement the dark gathering in his stomach stretches outward. It’s inside him, so much inside him he isn’t always sure of where he ends and it begins.

There are words now…voices, and he thinks some of them might be his. They sound like _please_ and _let go_ and _want_ and the heat of hands move over him, over his skin, fingering wounds and pressing a little more blood from them…tongues, teeth…he gasps for air, struggles to free his hands so he can touch, so he can pull them to him and find relief. 

“He’s ready.” John’s voice is a rumble, low and it shoots into Sam’s cock. Four hands move over his arms and up to the ropes holding him. The knife sings and he’s free, his hands sore, but moving and he grabs Dean first, kissing frantically, pulling his face closer. Then John, pushing their mouths together, wanting, craving, unable to stop himself.

Dean shifts so that he is under Sam, his cock sliding easily into Sam’s used hole, but it isn’t enough…isn’t nearly enough. Sam rocks on him, his hands dragging at John’s naked form, pulling him, reaching for his cock and guiding it down to join Dean’s. His mouth is moving, words and moans and whimpers he can’t control as his father’s cock moves in as Dean’s pulls out. 

It burns and Sam screams, though no sound comes as they move together and he holds his father’s shoulder and John kisses him, fucking his tongue into Sam’s mouth. John’s hand closes around Sam’s cock, and he’s coming before John even strokes him fully, coming and coming and he feels like he might never stop, like he’s bleeding out through his cock, surrendering his life for the relief.

When it finally stops, he’s sated and empty and little more than a rag doll between them, grunting as they punish his ass and fill it yet again, Dean first, and John following close behind.

Sam’s exhausted, spent. They settle him into the bed, cover him with blankets, kiss his forehead. 

“Sleep baby.” Dean whispers and they’re gone. He’s alone with the dark he let inside him, and it fills him up, takes over all that they took away…and he turns into whatever they’ve become as he closes his eyes and sleeps.

 

They’re waiting for him when he wakes, sitting wrapped up in each other’s arms, watching him. He’s aware of the changes inside him, but he isn’t completely changed. He feels them under his skin, feels the want for them…but he’s still Sam, still who he was before. It seems odd somehow.

He crawls out of the cocoon of blankets and sheets, stained with bodily fluids from all three of them and moves to where they’re sitting, watching. He’s sure there’s something they should be doing, knows he needs to shower the days off his skin, but he slips into his father’s lap first, seeks out his mouth, kisses him deep and long, then does the same to Dean.

“Get cleaned up. We need to hit the road.” His father taps his ass as he rises. Dean stands to start packing. It’s so normal and surreal…and Sam smiles to himself as he moves into the bathroom. 

He can track their movement, feels them touch, tastes their kisses. The shower is hot and comforting. He’s hungry, but it isn’t desperate, not yet. There’d be time enough for feeding.

By the time he’s done and dressed, Dean and their father have the truck and the Impala packed and ready to go. The room reeks of the secrets they’ve created. Dean comes to him, kisses him, pulls their bodies tight together. He cuts his own wrist and holds it up to Sam’s mouth and he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t question, just closes his mouth over the wound and tastes his brother. 

It’s enough to stave off the growing hunger. Dean’s cock is hard when Sam pulls away.

“Time enough for that later, boys.” John calls from the door. “Let’s hit it.”

 

Nothing really changes. They leave the dirty motel and head south, then west. Wind up in Colorado in two days and take out a ghost haunting a girls’ dorm. They hole up in some dive motel in the middle of nowhere and spend three days in bed.

Dean keeps the heat on in the Impala, even though it’s nearly ninety degrees as they head into Texas. Their skin is salty and damp. Sam spots a bar and they pull in. He’s thirsty, hungry. He wants.

They separate as they enter the dark confines. It’s little more than a room with a few tables and a bar. The jukebox is old and probably worth more than the entire place, including the alcohol.

Sam watches Dean sidle up to the bar, making eyes at the female bartender. His father aims for a table in the back. Sam heads for the jukebox, flicking his eyes over the girl at the nearest table. There’s no way she’s old enough to drink, eighteen…maybe…with dark eyes that are deep inside her beer and brown hair that slid down to cover her face. Sam could nearly taste her.

As he focuses on her, he feels Dean’s eyes, his father’s smile. Sam licks his lips. She’s hot and he wants her. She looks up as she feels him hovering, a flicker of a smile that disappears under whatever sadness has her here in this place pretending to drink. “You look lost.” Sam offers. She looks away.

“I’m…fine,” she responds.

Sam moves away, drops some money in the jukebox and picks songs randomly. “Dance with me.” He holds his hand out to her as the music stops and she looks up at him as if she doesn’t understand, but her hand is in his and he’s got her on her feet, moving them close together. 

He can almost taste her tears and it makes the hunger stronger. “It’s okay…I’m going to make you feel so good.” Sam whispers in her ear. When he kisses her, she stiffens, but doesn’t pull away and when he turns her toward the back door, Dean is there with a glass. Sam knows now what is in it, knows that Dean’s bled into the whiskey, that his father’s spit into it…and it will work its magic and she’ll follow anywhere he takes her. 

She spills a little, but as soon as she swallows, she belongs to him, her kiss frantic and needy and Sam lifts her…just lifts her and takes her into the dark behind the bar. She doesn’t notice right away that the others are there, that it’s Dean’s hands pulling Sam’s cock free or guiding into her. She’s focused on Sam, on his cock filling her on his lips pulling on hers.

Sam pushes her into the wall, nips at her neck. He can almost taste her…almost…and he can’t stop himself from biting, and she moans, yells as he draws blood. 

Dean slips in behind her and Sam can feel him filling her other hole. His hands expose her breasts and Sam’s mouth closes over one nipple. She writhes between them and Dean’s mouth is sucking at the wound Sam’s made. Sam bites, drawing blood from the tender skin of her breast. 

She whimpers, tries to move, but she’s held between them, impaled on them and their father is there, pulling her face to his, sucking her tongue into his mouth. She shudders as she comes, then comes again and Sam grunts, comes, slides out. Dean follows, filling her ass with his own orgasm and she falls to the ground.

John sinks behind her, licks her, sucks the juices out of her sopping cunt and ass…until she’s shuddering, shaking, coming all over again. He shares the taste of her, first with Dean, then with Sam and they leave her there, in the dirt, her skirt hitched up and her naked ass in the air. 

 

He’s pretty sure they should look for help. Tell someone. At least in the moments when he’s alone. John Winchester isn’t alone often. In the truck, on the road. The boys are behind him, in the Impala. Following his lead. Just like always.

They still hunt. They kill things. Save people.

Then they hole up in the dark and heat and they fuck until they can’t move. Sometimes they bring someone along for the ride, like that girl in Texas. Sometimes they need to feed…fresh, unsoiled, untainted bodily fluids.

He knows it’s wrong, but in the heat he can’t help himself. It should bother him the way Sammy goes after the blood, the way he gives in to the need before either of them. Sam brings them. Sam hunts them. 

Dean likes tears and sweat. He likes to make them cry, lick them. His desire for the blood is strong too, second only to Sam’s.

John’s own taste runs to come…and it doesn’t matter if it’s male or female. He needs it like he needs air. He needs help, and he knows it. He isn’t sure he can hold on to that need enough to save them…but he’s ready to try.

So he leads them, takes them to someone who can help. He hasn’t been to the Roadhouse in years. Not since Bill died. Not since he had to tell Ellen her husband wasn’t coming home. But she’d know what this was. She could help them.

He knows it’s a mistake the minute the door closes behind them. Sam and Dean spread out into the empty room, Ellen smiles at him from the bar and his cock twitches. His mind fills with images of having her stretched out on the bar, his face buried in her pussy.

He licks his lips and moves toward her, smiling. The boys have come together across the room, too close, too involved in each other. Someone is going to notice. 

Ellen’s got a shot of whiskey down before he reaches her and he imagines it’s a shot of something else as he downs it. 

“Long time.” 

He nods, glances at the boys. Sam’s got his hands on Dean’s hips. Dean’s got his head on Sam’s shoulder. They’re watching him. “Need something.” John manages.

Her eyebrow raises, her eyes flick to Sam and Dean. “Those your boys?”

John nods. “Pretty, aren’t they?” He can’t stop himself, licks his lips. The hunger is strong…for her…for them…

She looks at him funny then, and he knows she’s going to figure it out. “They okay?”

John shakes his head a little. “Something got ‘em. Don’t know what.”

She refills his whiskey and he relaxes a little. He wants to taste her. “They look…”

“Hot.” John finishes for her. He wants them almost as much as he wants her…maybe more…”It’s hot.” 

He leans closer, inhales the scent of her. “I think they’re sleeping together,” he whispers, and he can feel her shock, her revulsion. If she only knew. 

Her eyes skip over to the boys again and he can tell from her reaction that they’re kissing. It makes him ache with need. “I think you better go.” Ellen says, her eyes coming back to his.

He shakes his head. “Can’t…need…” He licks his lips again, tasting whiskey and come. “Hungry.”

He knows then he’ll never escape it, that taking her will bring the end…and he wants it anyway…wants to pull her over the bar and strip her naked, lay her out, drink her juices, fill her with his own…he moans with the need of it, feels an echo from his boys, and they’re close. He turns, and Sam is there, his face needy, his mouth open and John kisses him. 

The boy tastes like his brother, tastes like sin and sex and John’s cock is hard. He hears Ellen leaving, feels Dean sliding in between his spread legs…There’s the sound of a gun, the pump of a shotgun.

He turns them, pushes his boys away. He wants them safe, wants them free…wants them desperately.

They hesitate, and the shot rings out, taking a chunk of ceiling. John stands, blocks them from her view. He holds out his hands. He can feel them running, the roar of the Impala. He’s still hard and he wants nothing more than to follow them, but he came here for help…even if that help is a bullet between his eyes.

 

He’s a monster. 

It’s the first thought in his head when he comes to. A monster who raped his children. A monster that turned them into monsters.

He opens his eyes. He’s hungry. He wants. 

He’s tied down. The room is cold. Icy. He’s not alone.

“He’s awake.” 

Ellen is nearby, and Bobby and Pastor Jim. “Take it easy, John. We’re here to help.” Jim says.

“Help?” John asks, his voice deep and dark.

Bobby steps closer, nodding. “We’ll get it out of you, then we’ll go find the boys.”

“My boys.” John’s cock responds, despite the cold, despite his own revulsion. 

“We need to get it colder.” Jim says and John realizes that while he’s nearly naked they’re wearing winter coats and gloves. 

Ellen leans over him, her brown eyes warm with concern. “It’s going to get bad before it gets good.”

He’s alone then, alone in the cold with the hunger burning inside him.

It’s days alone in the cold. White light surrounds him. They feed him holy water and sacramental bread. They don’t touch him.

He’s a monster. 

The thought beats around in his head. He sees Dean in his mind, hears him pleading with him. Feels the needs that pushed him to do it anyway, to make his son like him.

There’s no sense of time, only cold and need and the shaking as the darkness tries to keep its hold on him.

“We found them.” It’s Bobby this time. He doesn’t come close, offers John water at the end of a pole. “They got away, John, but we won’t give up.”

He dreams of Sam and Dean on the road, with that hunger, that need inside them…and he knows no one will have to find them. They will come for him.

Sam and Dean will come and find them and no one here is ready for what they are now, for what they’ve become together. 

Sam didn’t need the dark to want his brother. Sam wanted Dean all along. And John had given Dean to him…broke him, filled him with dark, turned him into the monster…bound them together in this…

And now…Sam was the dark and Dean had become his shadow.


End file.
